


Redemption

by lellabeth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Precious boys are precious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lellabeth/pseuds/lellabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The couch smells like Phil. The whole apartment, really. Like soft sugar and bitter coffee, like cologne and body wash, like cuddling into a warm body at the end of a long mission. </p><p>He keeps picking up the drink, but its volume never decreases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> thanks heaps for Nikki for fixing all the uglies in this. <3

The dim glow of the lamplight makes the whiskey in his glass look like the deserts of Kuwait in the height of summer. He imagines it’d burn more fiercely than the burning sand, sliding down his throat and sitting like venom in his stomach. His fingers are shaking and there’s wetness all around his hairline, and he shouldn’t want a drink but god, he _does_ , wants it more than he has ever wanted anything else. The fumes are strong as he swirls the liquid around the tumbler; he can’t decide if it’s the best or worst smell in the world.

Either way, it stings.

His eyes are stinging, too - blurry no matter how much he blinks. There is cold on his arm as the whiskey sloshes from the glass and onto his wrist. It’s clear against his skin: harmless, except not. Except not even close to harmless. Except life-ruining, except world-destroying. Except everything he thought he put behind him.

He’d poured it straight from the bottle, still in its paper bag. Even buying it had made him start to shake, and he had to lock his knees and hold onto the liquor store counter just to keep himself upright. As he took the money out of his wallet to pay, he’d felt the firm circle the AA token he kept in the coin compartment made against the leather; the acid push of something in his throat had him hurrying to take what he wanted and get out of there. He made it home without thinking of anything but _drink drink drink drink_  and resolutely _not_  thinking of anything or anyone else.

Then he got home, sat on the couch and poured himself a drink.

That was three hours ago. 

The couch smells like Phil. The whole apartment, really. Like soft sugar and bitter coffee, like cologne and body wash, like cuddling into a warm body at the end of a long mission. 

He keeps picking up the drink, but its volume never decreases.

Something about the smell of that alcohol against the smell of Phil turns his stomach. It makes him think of retching over the side of his bed while Phil swiped clammy hair off his forehead, of Phil guiding him home from some nameless bar he started a fight at. He thinks of kind eyes and warm hands, and suddenly there’s the sound of ringing in his ear.

“Clint?”

“Phil, I-” he swallows around the sandpaper of his tongue. “I need...” _a drink_ , he wants to say.

“Oh, Clint.” He doesn’t have to say anything at all, because Phil knows - Phil always knows but never judges. He is never disappointed, just sad, and Clint wonders if maybe that’s worse. “Where are you?”

“Home,” Clint manages to rasp. What had he been thinking, bringing alcohol _here_? To the only good place he’d ever known, to the only home he’d ever had **—**  

“Whatever you’re thinking, please stop,” Phil says. His voice is so, so soft, like the blanket Clint remembers finding behind a dumpster when he was a child. It was ragged and knotted in places, but it kept him warm that winter.

He wishes he had it now. 

“I’m coming home, okay? I’m leaving right now, Clint. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like a scared kid. “Could you hurry?”

“I will. I promise.”

Clint breathes properly for the first time in hours, because he’s learnt that Phil’s promises aren’t like ones he’s heard before. Phil always, always keeps his.

“And Clint?” Phil’s voice is quiet. “Don’t forget that I love you.”

Phil hangs up.

It takes Clint thirty seconds to realize the wetness on his face isn’t sweat; it’s tears.

Clint is still holding the drink when Phil comes in. Phil doesn’t try to take it off him, doesn’t stare at the giant bottle sitting on the coffee table. He does nothing but walk towards Clint just the same as he does every day, coming to sit beside him on their tiny couch. Phil’s arm brushes his, just a little, and Clint leans in to it.

“Bad day?”

Clint laughs, but it sounds like he’s choking, all ugly and splitting. “The worst. Just... just the _worst_.”

He thinks of that afternoon, of being told he cannot apply for the strategist position he was recommended for because he doesn’t have a GED. He thinks of the way the HR worker’s cheeks had gone pink as he told Clint, as if he were embarrassed - as if Clint should be embarrassed. And he was, he was ashamed and angry and it all rolled into something heavy that sat around his middle like lead. All he is good for is taking orders. All he is good for is fighting. He is good at hurting and killing and rivers of blood.

“ _No_ ,” Phil says, fierce and unwavering, and Clint realizes he must have spoken aloud. “You are good at so many things, and none of those even factor into the list.”

He turns to Phil. Something inside him feels like it is loosening, unfurling from a fist.

“You are a brilliant, wonderful, talented, _intelligent_  man, Clint. You are kind and so patient, more than I could ever be. You have a way of seeing the good in people that no one else does and helping them to see it, too.”

 _Like you_ , Clint thinks. He looks into Phil’s eyes, wide and earnest and so love-filled that it makes him ache - but a good ache, one that doesn’t really hurt at all.

“I don’t know why stuff from my past keeps fucking everything up,” he says. “I’ve tried so **—** so damn hard, Phil, every day to be something more than that stupid trailer park and the circus, and I’ve **—** I’ve tried to be a better person than all of that, I’ve tried to be a _good_ person, but it’s like life keeps showing me I’m not, y’know? Like it keeps tugging me back from something good and reminding me of everything bad, and I can’t **—** I can’t. I just _can’t.”_

He shifts back and forth, unable to sit still. Everything inside him feels jittery, like there are livewires under his skin.

Phil’s arms are gentle when they wrap around him; as is the kiss he presses to Clint’s cheek. “It won’t always be like this. We’ll work on it all together, the GED requirements. You’re not even close to who you used to be. Not at all. Remember when we met?”

He’d been cocky, dangerously so **—** cavalier and full of bravado and so scared underneath it all he’d barely managed to function.

So he drank, because the alcohol blurred the edges of everything until it was manageable; even though somewhere deep inside he knew it was wrong, but he didn’t want to stop. Then he _couldn’t_  stop, and he didn’t know how dark it’d become until Phil had showed him the light.

He thinks of who he was then and it all feels like a lifetime ago. 

“You are a generous, compassionate friend,” Phil says quietly in the small space between them. “You are valued by everyone who matters. You’re a better partner than I could ever ask for, and you are _loved_ , Clint, more than you could ever imagine.”

The punch of his pulse is still strong, but it’s fading - the need that coursed through his veins earlier is slower now, dulled. He reaches a shaking hand toward Phil.

Phil takes the drink from him carefully. He places it on the table and brings his hand up to Clint’s hair. His fingers trace patterns all over.

“Recovery is not a straight road,” he says, quoting Clint’s speech from his one-year sober meeting. Clint’s eyes fill with tears again, but these ones don’t sting. “Recovery is feeling like you’re being twisted inside out every second of every day. Recovery is shitty and cruel, and it feels like everything will always be dark and wrong, like you’ll never escape any of it anyway. Recovery is bumps and roadblocks and nothing but red lights and stop signs. ”

Phil kisses Clint’s forehead; he grasps Clint’s hand in his free one.

“Recovery is ignoring everything that stands in your way. Recovery is seeing every obstacle and overcoming them anyway.” Phil’s thumb runs over Clint’s knuckles. 

“Recovery is realizing you can be more than what you are. Recovery is realizing you deserve good things. Recovery is realizing you are worthy of love and forgiveness. Recovery is realizing you need those things from yourself more than you need them from anyone else.”

Clint rests his head on Phil’s shoulder. His voice is barely audible when he speaks, but he says the words anyway. “Recovery is realizing you want to live again.”

Clint squeezes Phil’s hand tightly, like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered.

“I love you beyond words,” Phil whispers.

Clint feels so alive, he can barely breathe.

And it’s painful and messy, sitting there with tear-tracks staining his face, dried alcohol seeping into his skin, and yet he feels full. It’s just an obstacle, and he’s faced so many of those, and he’s beaten them all.

He raises his head and presses his dry lips to Phil’s, gentle but searching.

Phil kisses back.

Clint doesn’t know it all yet. He knows maybe even less than he thought, but he does know that he has something to fight for. He has a million things to fight for. Apart from himself, the most important one is sitting right in front of him.

They stand, eventually.

He pours the whiskey down the sink with Phil behind him. Once the bottle is empty, he turns in Phil’s arms and moves until there’s no room at all between them. No empty space. No gaps.  He moves until he feels the heat of Phil all around him, the tandem beat of their hearts in time.

Clint’s voice is hoarse. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Phil sighs softly. He pulls back to look at Clint, smirking a little. Relief is clear in the wrinkles around his eyes. “You steal all my best lines before I can even say them.”  
  
“I love you,” he tells Phil, right before he leans in to kiss the smile that sets something alight inside him.  
  
Phil’s lips taste like redemption.


End file.
